


i just want to see (you)

by drmsqnc



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, its your annual break from the sea of angst, starring suave robo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 06:39:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15624921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drmsqnc/pseuds/drmsqnc
Summary: flying high





	i just want to see (you)

“You’re laughing.”

“I’m not.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“Then I suppose it was an answer?”

“Don’t be smart! I  _saw_ you. You were so laughing at me!”

His eyes twinkle.

“Maybe a little.”

You swat at him with the paintbrush but he’s already gone, disappearing beyond the canvas with a breezy laugh. Frustration blows air into your cheeks.

“Look at what you did!” You groan in absolute agony, glaring down the misplaced streak of red. In your resolve to chase after him you seemed to have made a grave mistake. “You ruined it!”

“Oh  _I_ ruined it now?”

You don’t answer, instead choosing to send the abused half-done portrait into the void with your withering stare. Somehow you had to fix it.  _Somehow._

Markus calls your name. You persistently continue the silent treatment, upgrading your pout to a full blown sulk.

He sighs.

You hear the faint rustling of his clothing as he walks, stops right behind you. You steadily keep your gaze focused, determined not to be distracted by the warmth of his presence pressed up against your back.

He rests a hand on your shoulder.

You stiffen.

“No.”

His answering chuckle is warm and rich, rolling over and into you. “But I haven’t said anything yet.”

“Fine. What were you going to say?”

“Let me help you.”

“No.”

The thumb that had been gently massaging circles into your shoulder steadily makes it way to the back of your neck. You curl your fingers into your palms in an effort to contain the delicious shudder.

“I think someone is holding a grudge.”

“Says the one who started a rebellion.”

Your voice catches on the last word, pitches high and airy as he kisses your ear painfully slow. Warmth spreads from the contact, rendering you dry mouthed and light headed. Your grip on the brush in your hand tightens.

“Please?” he murmurs lowly.

You melt.

Markus moves to sit next to you on the bench, already well aware that you have given in. A knowing glint to his eyes, he pushes your palette closer to the middle, closing and rearranging bottles of paint in the way. The movements are smooth, almost absentminded. You wonder with quiet admiration just how long he’s been doing this.

“You have to be patient,” he whispers, placing a finger to his lips as though he’s sharing a secret. Amusement twitches the corners of his lips upwards. “And willing to make faults. Nothing you do can be absolutely perfect.” 

You nearly bubble over in indignation at the fact that he has  _no_ right to be saying that, but somehow keep your mouth shut.

“I’m patient,” you say with irritation. “The most patient. Patient-est. I have a plaque and everything.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“It’s my middle name?” You try sheepishly.

Shaking his head, he smiles fondly. “Come here.”

Markus leisurely takes your hand and covers it with his own, his longer fingers matching up against yours. You both pick up the brush, and he leads you back to your unfinished work.

He’s speaking now - lips forming words as you observe - but you don’t have the slightest idea what about. You’re not really listening. You’re merely watching the way his entire expression lights up at the topic, becomes entranced in the art the two of you make at your fingertips.

All at once, you suddenly want to touch him.

Even now, his guidance is so very gentle as he moves you across the canvas. You want to lean in and wipe away the smudges of colour from his cheek, let your lips trace unspoken poems up the curve of his jaw. The moment stills and you cling to its coat-ends, wishing it would freeze forever. Just you and him in the dim light of your cluttered studio, thighs touching, hands locked tight and hearts locked even tighter.

“You’re not paying attention,” Markus chides. He shifts his gaze to meet yours.  There’s an ocean living in one of his eyes and the garden of Eden in the other, and you think that just maybe eternal paradise was shipped down from heaven to rest in his smile.

“I’m not,” you agree. Your eyes travel down to where his other hand has been pressing invisible piano keys above his knee. “Is that Mozart?”

“Hmm?”

He hums, fingers hypnotically crafting beauty mid-air. The melody is the same as the song he had been playing earlier that morning. A teasing smile lights his eyes. “No.”

“Uh,” you squint, already coming to the end of your general knowledge of prodigy composers. “…Beethoven?”

“It’s original,” he finally relieves you. Your mouth forms an ‘o’.

“I didn’t know you composed!” You grin. “Why the sudden interest?”

Markus glides through several more chords before shrugging. His gaze doesn’t move from the canvas in-front of him when he smiles.

“Let’s just say I’ve recently gained a muse.”


End file.
